


Brat'ya

by Krieg_Machine



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-18 06:43:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7303723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Krieg_Machine/pseuds/Krieg_Machine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of Vladimir and Anatoly, from living in the slums of Samara to controlling New York's Russian mob to falling at the hands of Fisk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! This isn't my first fanfic, but it is my very first on AO3. I'm super excited to bring this to you, and I hope you enjoy what is turning into a monster of a project. This is self edited, so any errors are my own. Feel free to point them out, I won't be offended. Happy reading!

If there was a hell, Vladimir expected it looked something like Utkin Prison. Hidden in the deepest, snow covered ravine in Siberia, the barb wired brick fortress was probably the closest thing to the Devil's lair on earth, minus the fire and brimstone. But then again, Vladimir had once read that hell actually froze over, so he may not have been far off.

The plunging temperatures of a Siberian winter were some of the most dangerous, and deadly, in the world. The stone walls of the Utkin Prison soaked in the chill of the harsh snow and wind and turned each and every cell into the prisoners' own personal iceboxes. The guards each donned heavy winter coats, covering layers of long underwear, thick trousers, and warm sweaters, along with fur lined hats and gloves. The prisoners were left with nothing but a thin pair of pants and the bare skin on their backs. 

Leaned up against one of the ice walls, Vladimir could admire the cleverness of a prison in the middle of the tundra. He could feel the cold creep into the muscles on his back, the bottoms of his feet, and the tips of his frozen fingers and spread deep into his core, placating both his mind and his body. No man would have the energy to plot an escape; the prisoners barely had the energy to move about their own cells. The cold was a leech that sapped the will from even the toughest Russian men.

This was why Vladimir knew he would escape. He was unlike any other Russian man. He would not fall prey to the Siberian chill; his drive was far greater than any other man in the prison. He had risen from the slums of Samara to the royalty of Moscow, only to have everything he fought for stripped away by one slip up that wasn't even his own. The guards would never expect a former street rat like himself to overcome their might and fight the winter sickness that pacified so many of the great murderers and traitors housed within Utkin's walls. 

They would never expect it, so Vladimir knew he would escape. He lived to defy expectations. 

How had always been the tougher question. And that answer came with the cold that so many others resented.

The cells of the prison were turned into iceboxes by the cold, and they acted exactly as iceboxes should. They preserved things. Things much like Alexei.

Vladimir didn’t shed a tear when the older man had been deposited on the cell floor, dead eyes staring up at the ceiling as the stench of blood filled the room. Alexei had always resented him and his brother as they climbed from the depths of poverty to prevail wealthier than anyone could have imagined. He never stopped treating them like the poor hungry boys that had been living off the street when they entered the same business. Watching the guards drop his corpse at Vladimir’s feet had had no effect on him, but it did give him his means of escape.

The body remained in the cell for days, the cold preventing it from decaying and causing the guards to negate removing the corpse from the room. One of the other cellmates, Oleg, who had been taken from their cell early this morning, had openly complained about the disrespect of leaving the body in the jail instead of burning or burying it, returning it to God. Oleg was horribly religious and would probably be displeased that Vladimir had decided to tear open Alexei’s dead body and snap off a rib. Vladimir was not religious, but he had a feeling that Alexei would not be going to God in death. People like Alexei, like Vladimir, probably went a different direction. He didn’t feel so bad stealing a sinner’s rib to help grant his freedom. 

Vladimir ran a finger along the smooth edge of the rib, tracing the crimson blood that stained the bone. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head back against the wall. He could picture it: surging up to his feet when the guards opened the door, the sharp point of the rib sliding into the man’s neck, his brother at his side, freedom.

His brother. Anatoly. 

Everyday Vladimir regretted letting his brother join him the day they were arrested. His little brother should have never been in the warehouse during the raid. But Anatoly had wanted to prove himself a man, like his brother and the men who had taken them in. So, Vladimir had let him come, and now he was trapped in the same hellhole as the older brother he had once idolized. 

Anatoly had been raised on the streets; he was tough and strong willed. But he struggled to handle the brutality of Utkin Prison. Every day he grew weaker, the beatings by the guards sapping the life and will out of Vladimir’s little brother. All Vladimir could do was watch and try to draw the guards’ violence away from Anatoly and onto himself. Sometimes he could spew enough insults to garner the guards’ attention, but days like today he had to watch the boy he had practically raised be dragged away, never knowing if he’d come back in one piece, or like Alexei. 

But where Vladimir lacked faith in God, he was filled with faith in the Ranskahov blood line. They were fighters. Their grandfather had survived the Battle of Stalingrad during the Second World War. Their uncle had survived three bullet wounds during the Sino-Soviet border conflict, unlike many of the other border guards he had worked with. The Ranskahovs were built to overcome obstacles. Anatoly would come back, push back whatever injuries he had sustained, and, together, they would burn the prison to the ground. 

Leaning his head back against the wall, taking deep calming breaths, Vladimir let his thoughts wander as he slipped into an almost meditative state. He kept his eyes closed, focusing on preventing his body heat from being completely sapped away by the cold walls. So was the life of a prisoner: long days of cold and uncertainty. 

Vladimir was unsure how long it was before he heard the echoes of voices bouncing from the hallway beyond the reinforced door into his cell. His eyes slid open, lids remaining low, and he glanced over at the dead body of Alexei, double checking that the shadows covered the gaping hole in the man's chest, which Vladimir had torn open with his nails and, as he was not ashamed to admit, his teeth. Satisfied that his crime would go unnoticed, he let his gaze travel to the door.

The angry shouting had centralized right outside his door. The room rang with the sound of the key in the door's lock and the heavy thud as the bolt was slid out of position. Normally lit with nothing but sun or moonlight from the small thin window high up the wall Vladimir was against, the room was suddenly filled with dim, flickering light from the hallway. Vladimir squinted slightly, making out the shadows of two guards, a man limply dangling between them, before the guards tossed the listless man onto the floor.

Vladimir recognized Anatoly by the grunt of pain he let slip as he made contact with the hard floor, not to mention the tattoos that covered his brothers back, illuminated by the dull lighting pouring in from the doorway. He couldn’t help the spark of anger that ignited in his chest at his brother’s wounded noise and the foul curse one of the guards spat at the prisoners. Anatoly coughed painfully in response.

When the guards closed the door and locked it without another word, Vladimir was surprised. Their cellmate Oleg had been taken the same time as Anatoly, and Vladimir had expected the God-fearing man to be returned to the cell at the same time as his brother. He suspected he would not be seeing the man again, but it never hurt to make sure. 

“Where’s Oleg?” he muttered to his brother, who still had his face pressed towards the ground. Anatoly lifted his head slightly at his brother’s voice, reassuring Vladimir that he was not too damaged. 

Anatoly replied in a rough voice, “It’s just us now.” Vladimir’s concern for his brother, whose voice was heavy and slurred, overcame his disappointment that Oleg had not survived the torture. Where Alexei had been an adversary, Oleg had been some semblance of a friend. Hopefully the man found the God he so often sought. 

Anatoly braced a hand on the ground as though he were going to push himself up. 

“We don’t need anyone else,” Vladimir reassured his brother as he forced himself to his own feet in order to aid Anatoly. His muscles were frozen and protested the sudden action, making his movements slow and lethargic. He slid over to the man, who was curled slightly in on himself, moaning softly in discomfort. 

Vladimir rested one hand onto his brother’s back, a gentle touch, not wanting to upset any bruising or lacerations, while he carefully wrapped the other around Anatoly’s chest. With a strong tug, Vladimir pulled his brother up from the ground, towards a wall.

Anatoly gasped in pain, one hand flailing outward in an attempt to steady his self, as Vladimir dragged him to the wall, leaning him up against it. As Anatoly sighed quietly, for once relishing in the coolness of the wall pressed against his hot, battered back. Vladimir settled himself next to his brother up against the brick, taking in Anatoly’s haggard appearance. 

Anatoly was covered in blood, cuts and ugly dark bruises littering his chest and face, much like Vladimir suspected he looked himself. Sweat soaked his hair, plastering the long strands to his forehead. Vladimir could never convince him to cut it short, as he did. Maxim had kept his hair longer, and no matter how much Anatoly admired his older brother, he always seemed to idolize Maxim just a little more. And yet, who was rotting by his side in prison? Vladimir was proud to say that his brother had quickly realized the Ranskahovs didn’t truly need Maxim or any of the others once they landed in jail.

“Only each other,” Vladimir finished, patting his brother, who stretched painfully to become more comfortable, twice on his clammy chest, before shifting into an agreeable position of his own. 

Anatoly’s breathing was heavy and full of discomfort, and his unfocused gaze stared distantly at the far wall. Today had been hard on him, Vladimir could tell, but they had had worse days. The night the two brothers had been dragged off together, the night Vladimir had received the large gash across his right eye which would probably scar over and forever be a reminder of the hell they had been put through, would haunt both their nightmares for a long time. Today had been hard, but they had survived harder. 

Vladimir rested his arms on his knees, listening to his brother’s breathing, for a short moment. Anatoly seemed to process his words, slowly, before giving him a weak nudge with his hand. Vladimir’s eyes, which had decided to focus on his hands rather his beaten brother, drifted back to Anatoly. 

In a slurred, broken voice, Anatoly murmured, “Soon, it will just be you, Vladimir.” He met Vladimir’s eyes briefly before his gaze wandered away again and he sighed softly.

Vladimir did not hesitate to respond, with a small shake of his head, “No, my brother.” 

By hearing his brother’s words, his sudden lack of faith, Vladimir knew it was time to leave. He knew the Ranskahovs were fighters; they could physically overcome any pain or illness. But sometimes it was not the wound that killed, but rather the mind. Vladimir had seen it before. It was what had claimed his father’s life. The mind gives up much quicker than the body sometimes, and that can prove deadly. Anatoly’s comment was too similar to their father’s last words, and Vladimir would not lose another family member that way. If either Ranskahov were to meet their end, it would be by nothing less than a bullet to the brain. This prison was not how they would die. 

“We leave here together,” Vladimir told Anatoly, reaching to his waistband, where he had stowed Alexei’s rib bone at the sound of the guards. He held it out in front of his brother, watching as Anatoly’s eyes widened and his jaw went slack. ‘Tonight.”

Anatoly’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion as one hand tentatively reached out to touch the bone. “Where did you get this?” he asked, his voice sounding stronger, as he accepted the rib from Vladimir’s grasp. 

With a grim smile, Vladimir turned his head away from his brother, his focus turning to Alexei’s body on the far side of the room. Anatoly studied the rib, and then followed his brother’s gaze as Vladimir murmured, “A gift…” He gestured towards the dead man. “From Alexei.” 

Anatoly huffed out a quiet chuckle. He shared Vladimir’s view of the man. And, as a small smile began to creep onto his brother’s beaten face, Vladimir knew he was beginning to realize what that small rib bone meant for them. 

"The guard's shouldn't have left him for the rats," Vladimir continued, pushing away from the wall and slowly moving over to Alexei on his hands and feet. He crouched over the body and rolled it to reveal the damage to the man's right side: a bloody, gaping hole right over the short ribs, one of which was obviously missing in the gory mess. 

Anatoly’s voice rumbled from behind him, “Will we see Moscow?” 

“Moscow?” Vladimir asked over his shoulder. 

Of course his brother would ask about Moscow. They had grown up in the slums of Samara, or Kuybyshev as their father had always called it, never able to adjust to the renaming of his city, and had heard countless stories of the glittering city of Moscow. Moscow was a place of wealth and beauty, and for a young boy like Anatoly, who knew nothing but poverty, the city was a dream. No, not a dream, but a goal. 

Anatoly had his eyes set on Moscow, and Maxim had made the goal a possibility. Vladimir had seen Moscow, but it was nothing special: just another city full of people who looked down on him. But Anatoly wanted to see Moscow, and, as an older brother, Vladimir would have shown it to him, simply to make him happy. But now they were in jail. Now they were going to break out of jail. They could not stay in Russia. Moscow no longer had a place for them.

Vladimir shook his head. “It’s a city buried in the past,” he continued. 

He stuffed a hand into the wide hole in Alexei’s side. He barely noticed the gore that coated his already red-stained hands. He and Anatoly were both smeared with blood of their own, so a little extra had no effect on him.

“We must look to... the future,” Vladimir advised, his hand finding and taking hold of another short rib of Alexei. “America.” 

Vladimir pulled back on the rib, slowly, shifting his body weight to apply more force to the bone. “Where we will rule,” he took a deep breath from his nose, tugging harder on the rib bone, “as kings.” 

With a final wrench and a grunt, the bone snapped off of Alexei’s body with a sickening crack which would turn most men’s stomachs. Vladimir held the bone up, turning it in his fingers as he admired the sharp point. Their means of escape.

And he smiled.


	2. Part 1 Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something I forgot to mention: I played around with ages in this. I know that Anatoly is probably supposed to be older (especially since the actor who plays him is older than Vladimir's actor), but I'm taking some creative liberties with this fic. I just feel that these ages better reflect the dynamic between the brothers. Hope you enjoy this next chapter, which is only one day late. We're off to a good start. -Krieg

**Part 1**

**Princes of Moscow**

Chapter 1

Anatoly had grown used to waking up cold. The sheets on his bed were thin, and the rough plaster of the room he shared with his brother was poorly insulated, so every winter morning he woke up simply cold.

The Ranskahovs had grown used to living in poverty. The family could barely scrape together enough to feed themselves, let alone heat their entire building. What little heat they could pay for was funneled into the bar on the main floor when it was open. The living space above the bar, the two bedrooms and small kitchen, were left to the mercy of the elements.

Anatoly didn't care. He'd grown up wearing lots of layers to bed and had never known what it was like to be completely warm in the winter. It was the cards the family had been dealt. He had grown used to it.

Some nights, when Anatoly was wrapped up in the quilts, made by his grandmother years before, on his bare mattress on the floor, he could feel the traces of the bar’s heat sifting up through the floorboards. The warm sounds of laughter, jeers, and jokes floated up with the smell of cigarette smoke. Anatoly could pick out his father’s deep baritone voice as he poured drinks behind the bar and his brother’s laugh as he told the story of his latest escapades. Anatoly loved these nights; these nights made him remember that the people in his life were much more important than the money in his wallet.

Then there were some nights where the winter wind whipped through the cracks in the wall, the sounds of harsh cursing and  a bar brawl echoed through the house, and Anatoly dreamed of the mansions of Moscow and a life where there was always a fire in the hearth.

The stories of Moscow were some of Anatoly’s favorites. Every night, after a meager dinner, Anatoly would sit down in his father’s bar, listening to his brother and his friends tell tales of their great war-hero elders and the women with seductive curves they met out on the streets. Sometimes, when the group of twenty year olds left the bar, usually to chase down those alluring women, Anatoly would turn to the older men for tales.

A man named Oleg was a regular at the bar, and he tended to have some of the best stories to share, about mobsters and police raids, action and adventure. When the stories got to violent, Anatoly’s father would shoot Oleg a hidden glare to change the topic.

Oleg would laugh, toss his arm around Anatoly’s shoulder, and ruffle his hair. “By God, Vaska,” he would yell to his father, tossing back his glass of vodka. “The boy is fourteen years old. He’s probably seen worse on his way home from school.”

His father would simply shake his head and begin to wipe down the bar. “He’s too young to hear about such stuff,” he would rumble gruffly. “I don’t want him getting any ideas.”

Oleg would give Anatoly’s father a pointed, knowing look, but always respected the man’s wishes and changed the story. This was how Anatoly learned about the wonder of Moscow.

Whatever work Oleg did, Anatoly had never learned. His father always acted quickly to stop any conversation that drifted that direction, but what Oleg did do took him to many great cities in Russia. He always spoke the fondest about Moscow, the glittering capital of their proud nation. He spoke of wealth and marvelous buildings: the Winter Palace, Saint Basil’s Cathedral, and the Kremlin.

Anatoly would smile at the older man, leaning forward against the bar, and say, “Someday. Someday I will go to Moscow and see these places you speak of. And I will be as rich and powerful as the men in your stories.”

Oleg would grin encouragingly, but Vaska would simply shake his head again. “Moscow has poverty and slums just like Kuybyshev. Life there is not as glamorous as some make it seem.”

But every kid has a dream, and Moscow was Anatoly’s. Vladimir would always roll his eyes when Anatoly would talk about the city, retelling tales he had heard from Oleg for his brother’s benefit, but it was easy to see that his older brother found the idea of a posh life in the capital just as appealing.

As the morning light crept into the room, Anatoly rolled to face his brother, blowing a warm breath against his icy fingers. His brother was sprawled on another mattress not far across the room, quilts spread in a wild mess over his legs and torso. Vladimir had his head turned away from his younger brother but Anatoly could still hear the rumble of a deep sleep snore. _Probably sleeping off all of the Rodnik from last night,_ Anatoly thought to himself with a small smirk.

He slid over to the edge of the mattress and pushed himself to his feet, still wearing the sweater and trousers from yesterday. His boots sat at the end of the pallet, and he picked them up by the laces, chunks of caked in mud falling to the floor, while glancing out the small window to the city street below. It was a rather depressing view: a dingy road and a rundown butcher shop across the way. Even though the meat there was affordable, Anatoly's father still questioned the quality and decided to spend some extra rubles for trustworthy beef.

" _Vstavay_!" Anatoly murmured, nudging his brother in the ribs with his wool sock covered toes. "Wake up, Vladimir!"

Vladimir groaned in response, rolling towards the wall and away from the persistent jab of his younger sibling's foot. " _Otvali,_ " he grumbled into his crumpled pillow. Anatoly prodded him again. "Anatoly, piss off!"

With a roll of his eyes, Anatoly plodded out of their shared room and into the small kitchen. There were three rooms on the floor above the bar, a kitchen and the two bedrooms, one shared by the brothers and the other claimed by Vaska. When the family had to use the bathroom, they had to tromp down the stairs and use the bar's.

There wasn’t much to see in the kitchen: a dirty, outdated gas stove that was rarely used to save money on the gas bill, a refrigerator no bigger than Anatoly himself, a faucet over a rusty sink, and a wooden table with matching chairs that had each been repainted and chipped so many times it was impossible to discern what color they were actually supposed to be. As far as lighting went, they were lucky to have the bare light bulb that illuminated the room. The kitchen sat in perpetual nighttime when the bedroom doors were closed, as they held the only windows. The walls, just like the other two rooms on the floor, were painted a murky eggshell and cracked and peeled in more places than not. The creaky wooden floors were desperate for a good sweeping, but no one in the family bothered to take a broom to them and, instead, let the dust form layer by layer.

Vaska was already awake and working when Anatoly entered the room. “Good morning,” he greeted his son with a smile. The older man was already clothed in a pair of thick sweaters and a heavy, wool lined jacket that always reeked of old vodka and cigar smoke. As Anatoly sat down at the head of the wooden table, Vaska set a plate of breakfast in front of him and ruffled his hair with a gloved hand. “Where is your brother?”

“Still sleeping,” Anatoly replied, letting his boots drop to the floor next to his chair and taking a bite of the slice of rye bread with a slice of sausage that served as his morning meal.

Vaska let out a sigh, running a hand down his face in irritation. “That boy,” he muttered to himself. “I told him not to stay out so late.” He strode towards the room shared by his sons, his gate long and angry. He hastily closed the door behind him, an attempt to block out the argument that was sure to ensue. It was never very successful.

“Vladimir, wake up,” came Vaska’s rich voice through the wood. “Get up off your ass.”

Vladimir’s words were mumbled, impossible for Anatoly to make out. Vaska’s response was not.

“I do not care if you’re tired! It was your decision to stay out late, chasing after those criminals you call your friends! Those boys are a terrible influence on you. Every time you go out with them I keep waiting from a call from the _politsiya,_ telling me that my son has been arrest-”

Vladimir’s interrupting reply came in the same brash, angered tone. “You are one to talk about criminals! You think Anatoly and I don’t hear the stories everyone spews about you? Do you think I don’t know who all of those men that sit in your bar work for?”

Anatoly continued to nibble at his breakfast, the sausage quickly devoured and nothing but the crust left of the bread. Anatoly always saved the crust for last.

“I do what I have to in order to put food on our table.” Vaska no longer sounded angry, but instead weary. “You have a responsibility to this family, a responsibility to your brother. Running around with those boys and making trouble is not fulfilling that. You’re just putting everything at risk.”

Vaska paused. Anatoly picked at a chipped piece of paint from the kitchen table, the brown gray paint sticking to his nail.

“What do you think Maxim would do to me if police started snooping around my bar? Hmm?” Wisely, Vladimir did not respond. “What do you think he would do to your brother? You speak so boldly about how you know who I work for. If you are as smart as you seem to think you are, you should know exactly what a man like Maxim is capable of!”

What Anatoly knew of the man Maxim, whose name was whispered throughout the side streets like it was the devil himself, was no more than the wild rumors from the kids at school and the occasional hushed conversation between a pair of elderly men in the bar. But if even the smallest bit of it was true, Maxim was someone to steer clear of. Weapons smuggling, drug dealing, politics; he had a hand in everything. And if something stood in his way, especially law enforcement, Maxim made sure they wouldn't for long. Anatoly was sure Vladimir knew this, if not more.

The floorboards creaked in the other room as the two men shifted, the anger in the air tangible even to Anatoly on the other side of the door. Anatoly had grown used to these sorts of altercations between his brother and father, the intensity of which steadily increased as Vladimir spent more and more time out with his friends that helping his father with the bar.

“Go sober up,” Vaska spat, disappointment in his voice. “You need to take Anatoly to school, and then pick up our liquor shipment from the market. I have some work I have to take care of.”

The door knob turned, and Anatoly watched his father surge out from the room, his face flushed and sweat beading his forehead. Anatoly carefully schooled his face as if he hadn’t heard a word of the argument, even though the whole family knew he had.

“Have a good day at school,” Vaska grumbled, mussing up Anatoly’s hair as he passed. Anatoly heard a door slam behind him followed by the heavy clomp of his father’s work boots as he stormed down the staircase to the bar.

Anatoly got up and wiped the crumbs off of his plate before returning it to the stack of miscellaneous dishware piled on the stovetop. He sat back down in his chair and started tugging his boots on over his socks, tightening the laces slow and methodically as he waited for his older brother to emerge. There were a few creaks of loose floorboards and some shuffling from the other room before Vladimir made an appearance, his short hair sticking up at angles and his eyes red from sleep and alcohol.

He forced a smile for Anatoly, picking a foggy water glass up from the stack of dishes and filling it from the faucet in the corner. Taking a tentative sip from the glass, Vladimir plopped down in the chair to the right of his brother. Anatoly could smell the alcohol on his clothes. Vladimir leaned his elbows on the table, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, clearly fighting off a horrible hangover.

Anatoly moved to the fridge, digging out the sausage to fix his brother a quick breakfast. “So, how are you feeling this fine morning?” he asked his brother, his voice chipper as he glanced over his shoulder.

Vladimir turned in his chair, giving him a scalding glare. “ _Mudak.”_

Both of the brothers grinned.

* * *

 

The colored bottles of liquor clinked together, ringing over the white noise of conversation, as Vaska pulled them from the crate at his feet and placed them upon the shelf above the rows of cigarettes for sale and a framed picture of Vaska and his comrades back when he was in the navy. A quick glance away from his work showed Anatoly listening to Vladimir’s friends share their romp through the city last night in lighthearted voices and Vladimir, for once, on the other side of the bar, filling orders and making sure the rowdy group payed for their alcohol. At least something he had said to the boy had gotten through.

Vladimir had been determined to cause trouble ever since his mother had left. He spent less and less time helping his father manage their business and more and more running rampant through the streets, filling up with alcohol then causing all sorts of trouble. Vaska thanked God every day that his son had yet to be arrested; many of his friends had seen the inside of a prison when they were barely over eighteen; but the boy was pressing his luck.

The last thing Vaska wanted was for his children to be looped into the same situation as him: a crime lord breathing down his neck as he tried to keep his family afloat. When his bar had been failing, taking up work from Maxim was the only way to make an income and keep his family alive. He made customers out of Maxim’s men and a profit out of the illegal weapons he held in his store room.

It kept his family alive, but it was slowly killing him. Someday, someone was going to show up in the bar, and Vaska would never leave. It was the nature of the business. Vaska just wanted to keep his family as far away from it as possible.

The door swung open, a cold wind brushing through the door in front of two men. The sounds of the city blended with the pumping bass of the bar’s music for a brief moment, before being closed once more. The latch of the door didn’t catch and one of the men, the tallest of the pair, struggled with it until he was satisfied it would not fling open and let the winter in.

“What can I help you with,” Vaska asked, nudging the empty crate away with the toe of his boot and leaning his hands against the bar, giving the customers a once over. The taller man wandered, his eyes darting about the bar, eyeing the patrons, while the other slid onto a stool, meeting Vaska’s gaze.

“Ah.” The man glanced at the row of liquor neatly lined on the shelf, before pointing at a bottle. “Two, please.”

Vaska turned to reach up and grab the bottle of vodka by its neck, but he did not miss the glance the two men shared, the man at the bar tapping his fingers on the counter top as the other sat down next to him. _God, law enforcement is shit these days,_ he thought to himself, unscrewing the cap from the bottle and fishing two glasses out from under the bar.

“So,” he said as he filled the glasses, the clear liquid sloshing over the edge of the second and dribbling onto the bar top. He twisted the cap back into place and set the bottle down next to the poured glasses with a _thunk._ Vaska slid the glasses towards their respective owners. “What brings you to this part of the city? I have not seen you here before.”

Both of the men were too clean, too well fed, to come from the same poverty stricken, crime filled streets as the other men he served vodka to. Their gloves were new, no holes or patches, and their boots, which he had gotten a glance at when they walked in, were clean, as if they scrubbed them every night before bed. They had no visible tattoos, practically a staple of the criminals who drank here, like the one that crawled up Vaska’s own neck or the small artwork covering Vladimir’s hands.

“We come from Tolyatti; my brother in law and I just moved our families here,” the taller men explained, slapping his partner on the back in a friendly manner, his voice deep behind the stubble on his chin. “I have found a good job, and Dima here hopes he will be equally lucky in Samara.”

Vaska made a small noise of acknowledgment, busying his hands with a rag, wiping the excess vodka from the bar top. “Work here…” -Vaska glanced around the room as though it was the entire city- “is hard to come by.”

The door creaked open once again, and the familiar form of Oleg slid in, his head covered by a large hat and his thick coat lined with a layer of snow. Vaska met his gaze over the heads of the police officers. Oleg jerked his head towards the store room door, stripping his jacket and leaving it hanging by the door. When Vaska gave him a short nod, Oleg moved to the back of the bar, patting a friend’s arm on his way.

“Well, hopefully,” Dima continued, “I will be lucky.”

Vaska gave him a smile, though it was just a movement of muscles. There was no light in his eyes, no true hope for a man who was already employed to find work. “I hope you will. Welcome to Kuybyshev, both of you.” He left the men with a nod.

As the policemen toasted, a fake jovial " _Tvoyo zdorov'ye_ ", Vaska slid to the far edge of the bar and latched a hand onto his eldest son's bicep. Vladimir turned, prying his attention away from his friend's excruciatingly detailed description of a young lady's anatomy.

"Vladimir, take your brother upstairs, make sure he has his school work complete," he whispered into his son's ear, giving the boy a stern, pointed look. "These are not stories for someone his age." They both glanced at Anatoly, whose eyebrows were drawn and face lined with confusion as he absorbed the words of his senior.

"Come watch the bar once he is settled, I have to speak with Oleg," Vaska finished, giving Vladimir a pat on the arm.

Vladimir gave his father a dark look, his eyes flicking to the back of the bar where Oleg disappeared behind the store room door, but held his tongue, clearly thinking about their argument this morning. He shuffled over to his brother, muttered something in his ear, and then nodded towards his friends as Anatoly stood up. The younger boy looked relieved to be excused from the discussion. _I’ll have to talk to him about women soon,_ Vaska thought as the boys made their way towards the staircase and he towards the store room. His children were growing up painfully fast.

Vaska had no worries about someone trying anything in the bar while he was gone. There was so much firepower strapped to the bar patrons that if someone even looked at the cash box funny, they’d end up with a bullet in their back. He just hoped no one decided to take care of the policemen; the last thing he needed was even more law enforcement crawling through his home.

Once he had slipped behind the storeroom door, Vaska descended the dilapidated wooden stairs that felt as if they would give out under his weight with every step. Oleg was waiting for him at the bottom; the dim light of a single lightbulb dangling from the ceiling casting harsh shadows around the room, illuminating the crates of AK-74’s disguised as whiskey waiting to be picked up.

“Make this quick Oleg, I don’t want those two policemen to get murdered while I’m gone,” Vaska said, standing next to Oleg. He was much taller and younger than the other man, but Oleg was dangerous in his own ways. Oleg never carried a gun, he didn’t like them, but he was one of Maxim’s closest advisors. One bad word from Oleg and one could be waking up at the bottom of the Volga River.  

“That’s exactly it Vaska,” Oleg said, running a hand over his balding, grey hair. He fixed Vaska with a firm look. “Maxim’s connections in the force learned that the police have become suspicious of you. They’re preparing to mount a full investigation into you and your relationship with the mob.”

A tightness settled in Vaska’s chest; fear. This was exactly what he had been trying to avoid by setting Vladimir straight. If the police began associating him with Maxim and his criminal actions, Maxim would have him offed. This was how the crime lord survived, how he escaped imprisonment. If an asset became a risk, he cut it off, like pruning a bush.

Letting out a shaky breath, his eyes closed, Vaska ran a hand down his face, rubbing the back of his neck. “So is that why you are here, Oleg?” he asked, opening his weary eyes to stare down his potential executor.

The other man looked away, resting his hands on his hips. The basement storage was freezing cold, receiving none of the heat from the bar room above. Vaska could see Oleg’s breath come out in short puffs, the silence between them long.

“No,” Oleg said at last, turning back towards his companion. He shook his head and repeated, “No. I am your friend, your good friend. I have watched your children grow for many years now. Maxim knows this, and he would not make me the one to carry out your sentencing. He is not that cruel.”

Vaska could imagine Maxim being that cruel, but he did not share this with Oleg. “You came to warn me then?”

Oleg nodded, slow and sad. “ _Da._ ”

“Do you know how much time I have?”

“No, but seeing two police officers sitting in your bar,” Oleg shook his head, “not much. It’s too much of a threat.” He gestured over towards the stack of gun crates. “I will take care of the weapons, but you need to take care of your family. Samara, Kuybyshev, whatever you want to call this city, Vaska, it is no longer safe for you. You and the boys need to leave. You need to leave the country. There is not much more that I can do for you.”

“Thank you, Oleg,” Vaska breathed, the two men embracing, pounding each other on the backs. “ _Spasibo_. I owe you my family, and my life.”

As they released one another, Oleg gave Vaska a sad smile. “Do not thank me yet. Let us just both pray that God smiles down upon the Ranskahovs."


	3. Part 1 Chapter 2

**Part 1**

**Princes of Moscow**

Chapter 2

Vaska had not been gone long before he reemerged from the store room, pushing aside the dilapidated door. Vladimir tracked his father’s movements across the room as he wove through the tables and chairs, littered with empty glasses, bottles, cigarette butts and ashtrays. It did not escape his notice that Vaska’s eyes flicked to the back corner of the bar, occupied by a small gaggle of what could only be Maxim’s men.

The whole group simply reeked of organized crime. Even without the pistols strapped to their thighs and peeking out of holsters tucked beneath their coats, Vladimir could identify them as part of the mob easily. Nearly every bit of visible skin- hands, forearms, necks-were covered in mob tattoos, signifying the horrid deeds they had done in and out of prison. Indicating prison stints, men killed, and women conquered, the ink covering these men was a readable book of every heinous act they had performed. Vladimir and his friends had once gotten their own tattoos, small ones on their knuckles that announced their small acts of thievery to the criminal underworld, but compared to the men drowning themselves in vodka, they were practically marks of sainthood.

The men he was currently pouring a pair of glasses for were not convicts. Vladimir could practically smell their police badges. They were either very brave or very stupid to come crawling into the choice bar of countless mafia members, asking dangerous questions.

“So, young man,” the larger of the men addressed Vladimir as he capped the bottle and returned it to its place on the shelf. “You must have grown up here, yes? My family has just moved here.”

Vladimir ignored the man’s attempts at small talk, initiated in order to draw out his father’s secrets, to instead focus on his father. Oleg has yet to surface from the basement. Vaska had paled a shade or two in the past couple of minutes; whatever business Oleg had spoken of seemed to have shaken him. Vaska normally served as a simple way point for all sorts of illegal products. He would pick up shipments of drugs, weapons, and sometimes people and keep them hidden in the basement of the bar. Perhaps Maxim had decided that wasn’t enough.

Beads of sweat dribbled down the side of Vaska’s face and down into his shirt collar as he leaned against the bar and addressed his son; “Vladimir, go upstairs. Do not come back down unless I tell you to.” He kept his voice low, hiding his words from the undercover cops who watched the pair with rapt attention, clearly unbothered by Vladimir’s disregard for their question.

Vladimir frowned. “Why? I don’t understand…”

Vaska shook his head, leaning across the bar to grasp Vladimir by the back of the neck and pull his head forward. Leaning in, Vaska breathed into his son’s ear, “For once, just do as I say. There is a gun under my mattress. Take it; protect your brother.”

Vladimir pulled away from his father, observing him. Hidden in Vaska’s chiseled face, his grey eyes, shared by both of his sons, were clouded with worry. This was a man who worked for one of Russia’s most dangerous criminals. He was constantly under the threat of being exposed to the police but had never once been afraid of a job to be done.

“What did Oleg say to you?” Vladimir asked, snatching his father’s sleeve as he retracted his arm. “Has Maxim threatened Anatoly? What does he want you to do?”

Vaska shook his head. ‘There isn’t time,” he whispered, tugging his arm away from Vladimir’s grip. “I will explain soon, but you must go. Now.”

Vladimir took a tentative step away, in the direction of the staircase. He and his father had never seen eye to eye, but if Anatoly was in trouble, Vaska would never keep it a secret. Not like this. There was a level of trust between the two of them, not matter how thin it was becoming with every new, wild stunt Vladimir decided to pull. If Vaska was keeping something from him, it could only mean danger.

“Go!” Vaska ordered, his voice louder when he saw his son’s hesitation, slamming a hand down onto the surface of the bar. Some of Maxim’s men turned their heads towards the bar, searching for a fight between the father and son, ready to throw down money in bets on who would win. The two police officers had long since abandoned their drinks, watching the exchange, hands drifting to hidden weapons.

Vladimir gave his father one last dark, analyzing look before turning and striding calmly out from behind the bar. It felt as though every eye in the bar tracked his progress.

Once he was hidden by the walls of the stairwell, Vladimir rushed up the stairs, his boots thudding against each wooden step. As soon as the door at the top was flung open, Vladimir’s eyes searched the room for his brother. He had left him at the table, a worn copy of _The Brothers Karamazov_ in his hands and a confused look on his face as he deciphered the text. The kitchen was now empty.

“Anatoly?” Vladimir shouted as soon as he failed to lay eyes on his brother. Could Maxim have sent men into their home in such a short time? Could his brother be gone, abducted by the brutal gang members, dead? He yelled louder. “Ana-!”

Vladimir’s younger brother flung himself out of their shared room, a look of panic on his face. Vladimir slumped in relief while Anatoly seemed to stiffen in fear. “What? Vlad, what is it?” Anatoly stuttered as Vladimir crossed the room to him, gripping his shoulders, searching his brother for the smallest sign that someone had laid a hand on him.

Seeing nothing, Vladimir pushed Anatoly aside, looking into their room for potential perpetrators. Once he had ripped the door away from the wall and confirmed that no one lurked behind it in the shadows, he did the same with his father’s room. It was equally empty. Whatever had his father so spooked wasn’t on the upper floor. He only wondered if he should have left Vaska alone with so many of Maxim’s men.

Anatoly had not moved from his spot, tracking his brother’s movements through the apartment with wide eyes. “Vladimir,” he pleaded with his brother. “Tell me, what’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” Vladimir replied truthfully. He tossed the mattress from his father’s bed to the floor. A Makarov pistol lay in wait upon the bed springs. It was an older model, but with three loaded clips it was still a deadly weapon in Vladimir’s hands.

His father seemed to have an inkling of Vladimir’s criminal exploits. It had started small: shoplifting and muggings with some of the boys that lived down the street. He’d quickly promoted himself to full-fledged armed robberies with his closest friends, the violent, blood thirsty men who he trusted to have his back. They were responsible for three successful hits within the past four months. Vladimir had killed people; he knew how to use a gun.

None of the crew had been caught, but the police were sure to have suspicions. Seeing the police in the bar had sent his friends out of the bar’s doors pretty quickly. Vladimir had simply hoped that if the two officers were dumb enough to come to their bar, filled to the brim with Maxim’s thugs and murderers, that they wouldn’t know who he was.

Vladimir hoped no one in the police force knew who he was. Vaska was right; Vladimir put his family at risk every time he committed a crime. He just hoped that whatever was bothering his father wasn’t his fault.

“Something is happening with father and Oleg. I don’t know what, but father is afraid,” Vladimir told his brother, blunt and to the point. Anatoly was fourteen; he understood what business his family was tangled in.

Vladimir picked up the Makarov, slamming a clip into place and chambering a round. The other two clips he tucked away in the pockets of his pants for later use.

Anatoly nodded. “Then what should we do?” Vladimir did not miss the way Anatoly’s eyes drifted to the weapon in his hand, a dark glint in his eye. Vladimir fully expected his younger brother to ask him for a weapon of his own and was ready to interrupt. But he never got the chance.

Because a gunshot interrupted them for him.

* * *

 

For once in his life, Vladimir listened. If Vaska could be thankful for anything, it was that his son was protective of his younger sibling. Some days he would use this love between brothers to his advantage to get the boys to do what he needed, telling a little white lie to keep the pair out of trouble. This time there was no need to lie. If Vaska wasn’t careful, all three of them could end up dead by the end of the night.

Vaska knew he had the attention of the whole bar as he watched his son disappear up the stairs. The two cops were skittish, and Vaska’s yell had sent their hands to concealed weapons. Maxim’s men were looking for a good fight.

There was something, however, in the way the men sat this night. On edge, eyes following not only the disguised policemen, strangers who did not belong in the bar, but the bartender himself. Vaska had been a part of Maxim’s operations for many years, but he was a simple middle man. He held the drugs and weapons and people that Maxim was selling before they could be passed along to a buyer. His job was to never draw attention to himself and, so far, he had always been successful at it. Most times the thugs who drank his vodka forgot that he was also one of them.

They noticed him tonight.

The look in their eyes was cold and hungry, the way a wolf would stare at a wounded deer. Eyes of murderers. Eyes of the men who were here to kill him.

Vaska had thought he would have had more time. Oleg had just warned him but a few minutes before. He had wanted to get the boys out of the building, at the least. At the most, he wanted to be out of Russia, this life left behind and a fresh start where his children could grow up to be more than crooks and criminals in hand.

Dread weighed heavily on his shoulders as he slid behind his bar. He knew the bar top and bottles would do nothing to protect him against a bullet, but maybe the AK-47 hidden behind it could.

Vaska had served in the military, just as his father and brother had before him. It had taught him to handle a weapon and to always be prepared. He had hoped that Vladimir might follow in his footsteps and join the military as well. God knows the boy could use the discipline. But instead, he wanted to stay with his brother and take up a life of crime. In some ways, that could be seen as following in his father’s footsteps.

Coming home from the service had left Vaska with no job and no money. Once he got his hands on the bar, he had been able to get off pretty well. He’d been young and stupid, found himself a pretty girl, and, before he knew it, had a son. They were happy. He’d been talking to Vera, his girlfriend, about finally getting married when they found out she was pregnant again.

Even as the USSR began to be reformed, the bar could suddenly no longer pull in customers. The family couldn’t pay their bills or put enough food on the table. Once Anatoly had been born, Vera had left. Vaska didn’t know where she went; he didn’t care. He raised the boys the best he could and turned to the crime rings for work.

The minute he started getting a paycheck from Maxim, Vaska knew he would end up dead for his work. In his head he knew this, but some part of him clung to the idea that he could live his life out in peace. That dream ended tonight.

Vaska’s hand slowly pushed aside stray bottles beneath the bar until his fingers drifted over the barrel of the gun. It had always been there, loaded and ready, since the day he agreed to be convict’s go-between.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Vaska addressed the whole room. He kept his gun low and out of view from the patrons as he drew it close to his body. Any eyes that had not already been following him around trained onto the bar owner. “I’m sorry, but we’re closing early tonight.”

There were some disgruntled groans and grumbles from some of the men. Maxim’s men, the ones out for blood, narrowed their eyes and tossed each other knowing looks. Vaska glared them down.

“Come now,” one of the policemen said behind him. Vaska glanced over his shoulder to the far end of the bar. It was the man who had never given a name, the tall one who had taken care of the speaking for the pair. “The night is young, why close?” There was a nervous lilt to his voice. Both police officers had stood. Dima had his hand tucked into his jacket, ready to protect his life if he needed to.

Vaska was ready with a harsh “ _Otvali!”_ but was interrupted before he could try and scare the officers away. It was Alexei, a weasel of a man who had served more years in prison than Vladimir had been alive. Weasel was the best word for him; a spindly man whose body seemed to long for his shorter limbs with beady black eyes and short sharp teeth. He wore his vulgar tattoos with pride and killed men with even more.

“Yes, Vaska,” Alexei growled, once Vaska had turned his gaze back on the cluster of Maxim’s men. “Why close?”

Alexei, along with the other men, had stood up. Holsters that were normally hidden were out in the open, the glint of guns beneath coats and strapped to thighs.

The silence that followed was long, drawn out. Suspenseful. Sweat continued to trickle down Vaska’s forehead and the back of his neck into the collar of his sweater. Floorboards squeaked as men shifted their weight from side to side. Some had fled the bar at the signs of a conflict; others remained in their seats, either hoping for a show or too petrified to move.

The sound of the gunshot was like a clap of thunder in the silent bar as the bullet whizzed from the barrel and hit skull.

Vaska watched the man to Alexei’s right collapse with a spurt of blood. It was the cop, Dima, firing from behind him. _God damn those trigger happy_ politsiya, Vaska swore, swinging up his own weapon and firing off half a dozen rounds. Two more men went down as the rest dove for cover, overturning tables and ducking into small alcoves.

Vaska dipped down behind the bar as curses and bullets flew at him in return. The wood of the bar splintered and fractured, and the bottles above and below the bar exploded, raining glass and alcohol down on top of his head. Vaska covered himself with one arm, cradling the AK to his chest with the other. A bullet grazed Vaska’s side, right beneath his armpit, and he gasped in pain.

He could hear Alexei barking out swears, jeers, and orders as the gunfire stopped and fresh clips were loaded. Looking behind him he could just see the top of two heads peeking out from the top of the bar. _Damn those_ politsiya, he thought again, shifting to a more comfortable position, preparing to fire again.

Over the rushing of the blood in his ears, just as Vaska was ready to pop out and pepper the thugs with more rounds, he heard his son. “Dad?”

It was Anatoly, his voice worried, scared, and angry. The stairs creaked in the quiet of changing clips and heavy breathing.

“Stay where you are, Anatoly!” Vaska shouted. “Don’t come down here until I-”

The two policemen open fired onto Maxim’s men, who fried back in return, drowning out Vaska’s words. Pressing a hand against his bleeding wound, Vaska swore. Everything had gone to hell so quickly. He prayed that Vladimir could keep his brother out of the line of fire and that he wouldn’t be stupid enough to put himself there instead.

There were some cries of pain from the group of criminals. At least the police learned how to aim. Maybe he shouldn’t have judged them so harshly.

As he stood to fire again, a bullet slammed into his right shoulder from behind.

The next thing he knew, Vaska was flat on his back, blood mixing with vodka on the floor, the distant echo of gunfire and his son screaming his name. He had judged them correctly. _Those damn_ politsiya.

* * *

 

Vladimir had snatched his brother by the collar of his jacket and dragged him back away from the doorway of the stairwell. As soon as the gun fire had started on the floor below, Anatoly had slipped past Vladimir and thundered down the stairs. He had yelled for their father as the firefight came to a standstill, but Vladimir had rushed down the staircase after him, grabbed him by the scruff and yanked him down into a seated position on the staircase. He indicated for his younger brother to be quiet and got a stronger grip on his Makarov.

“Stay where you are, Anatoly!” their father yelled from the other room. “Don’t come down here until I-” The gunfire began once again, with ever more fervor.

“Stay here,” Vladimir echoed his father, pushing his younger brother back down into a seated position by his shoulder. Once he was sure Anatoly was going to obey his order, Vladimir swung around and peered out of the doorway and into the bar.

He chose both the worst and best time to look. A second sooner and he could have stopped the bullet that ripped through his father’s shoulder, sending him down to his knees and out of view behind the bar. A second later and he would have missed his opportunity to know just who he needed to kill for putting a hole in his father.

Vladimir knew he screamed an angry, guttural cry for his father as he surged out from behind the doorframe. It was one of those idiot policemen who had done it. A bullet straight into Vaska’s back.

Paying little mind to the standoff between the police officers and a small cluster of men from the bar, Vladimir fired two quick shots, both impeccably aimed and driving into the knee and thigh of the bastard who had shot his father. The policeman fell with a cry of pain, his whole leg collapsing beneath him. His partner watched him tumble to the ground, crouching down to hide his body from the onslaught of Maxim’s men.

Watching his partner thrash on the ground, blubbering and grasping at the gaping wounds in his leg, then turning his gaze to the man responsible, the taller policeman made a quick decision. As the gunfire subsided once again, he turned tail and fled quickly from the bar, disappearing into the snowy darkness. Most of Maxim’s men decided to give chase and followed the fleeing policeman out of the bar. A group of three stayed behind.

Once Vladimir was sure that the man writhing around on the ground in a steadily increasing puddle of blood wasn’t going anywhere, he turned his wrath onto Maxim’s men.

“Get out,” Vladimir growled, stalking over to them. The clear leader of the men, a gangly man, held Vladimir’s fire-filled gaze, a small smirk on his face as the young man closed in on him. What was this man’s name? Abram? Alexei? Vladimir couldn’t remember or care, he simply knew the man and his lackeys were bad news. He wanted them out of his home, out of his life. He had to take care of his family now, and these drug dealers, traffickers, and assassins were just going to get in his way.

When they made no move to leave the bar, Vladimir jammed his gun under the leader’s chin, using enough force to cause the man to twist his head back in discomfort. “I said,” Vladimir breathed into the man’s ear. “Get. Out.”

The man shoved Vladimir’s hand and gun away and stared at him for a long couple of seconds, before jerking a hand towards the other two men and stomping around Vladimir and out the door. Each man seemed to glance at where his father had fallen, one making an awkward shuffle towards the bar before he seemed to think better of it and follow his cohorts out into the blizzard.

“Vlad?”

Vladimir turned to see his brother standing in the doorway, eyes sliding from his older brother to the policeman covered in blood. Crossing the room to his brother, Vladimir grasped his brother by the sides of the face and forced the boy to look him in the eye.

“Father has been shot,” he said, keeping his voice level and authoritative. There was no time to coddle his little brother right now. Anatoly was smart; he knew what was going on, now he had to act. “I need you to go to him, behind the bar, and put pressure on his wound. Can you do that, _brat moy_?”

Anatoly nodded the best he could with his brother’s hands upon him, his eyes steely. He slipped away from Vladimir, moving slow and stiff, pieces of shattered bottles cracking under his boots. Vladimir watched him disappear behind the bar, a small, shocked intake of breath escaping from the younger brother as he crouched down.

He left Anatoly to tend to their father. He didn’t even know if the man was still alive, but he wanted his brother occupied with something while he dealt with the man who had caused all of this.

The policeman was no longer where he had fallen. His leg unable to support him, the man had begun to drag himself across the messy floors on his stomach with his arms towards the entrance. Vladimir watched him make his painstakingly slow way across the floor with a cold, calculating gaze.

Once he had had enough of the man’s lackluster escape and pitiful whines, he strode slowly to the officer’s side. “And where do you think you’re going?” he asked, nudging the toe of his shoe into one of the bullet wounds seeping from the man’s injured leg. He was answered with a scream of pain.

Smirking, Vladimir crouched down and grasped the man’s shoulder. He flipped the man over so he was lying on his back, his lame leg tucked awkwardly beneath the other. Vladimir was glad to see the pain, the fear that flooded from the wounded policeman’s face. “I asked you a question.” The man whimpered

“Vlad?” Anatoly sounded worried.

Vladimir ignored him, leaning over the man before him. “You shot my father,” he said, pressing his gun into the man’s chest. He dragged the barrel up along the man’s neck before letting it settle on his temple. “You and your friend. You came into my home and shot my father.” His finger tighten on the trigger of the Makarov.

“P-p-please…” the man stuttered. His whole body was shaking, he was crying. _Pitiful,_ Vladimir thought. This was no way for a man to die, begging for his life. But he had shot Vladimir’s father.

“If you see him, you might want to ask God to keep me from going into your house and shooting your family,” Vladimir snarled. He pulled the trigger.

His face was sprayed with all means of blood and gore, the body before him an unrecognizable mess. Vladimir stood and spat on the remains of the police officer, rubbing his face with the back of his hand to clear away some of the grime.

“Vladimir!”

Finally, he turned his attention on his brother, sliding around the bar to stoop down next to his brother over their father, who was perched precariously on his side. Anatoly had his hands pressed tightly against Vaska’s shoulder, thick blood gushing between his fingers. Anatoly looked up from where his hands were trying to keep his father alive to Vladimir’s face. His eyes widened a fraction at the sight. Anatoly couldn’t have missed the gunshot but the sight of the blood smeared all over his brother was still a shock.

“How is he?” Vladimir asked, turning his younger brother’s attention away from his face and instead to their dying father.

“I think he might be coming around,” Anatoly answered. Vladimir glanced at his father’s face. The man’s eyes twitched beneath his eyelids and his mouth began to tighten into a grimace of pain. “The bullet didn’t go all the way through, I checked. But he’s losing a lot of blood. I don’t know what to do.”

Vladimir nodded in agreement. “We need to get him somewhere safe. A hospital or a-”

He stopped speaking quickly at the creak of a footstep on the old floorboards. He shared a look with Anatoly. More police? Vladimir quickly checked the clip of his Makarov, still with five shots. He pulled an extra from his pocket, in preparation for potentially another fire fight.

Vladimir didn’t miss the large piece of glass Anatoly picked up from the pile of shards covering the floor as a weapon. He gestured for Anatoly to remain where he was as he rose slowly, peering over the top edge if the bar top. His gun was raised and poised to fire.

It was Oleg.

Vladimir let out a small sigh, fully standing up and tucking his gun away in his waistband, safety on. “And where the hell have you been?” he snapped at the older man.

It was no secret that Oleg wasn’t a fan of guns. Even though he worked for one of the biggest mob bosses in western Russia, the man tended to keep away from dirty work. More of a businessman than a gun for hire, unlike most of the men. Vladimir had not seen the man follow his father up from the basement. He had no doubt Oleg has stayed hidden down in the store room the minute the first shot was fired.

Oleg ignored him. “Did you see what happened?” he asked. “Did Anatoly?”

Vladimir grunted an affirmative, gesturing for the man to come behind the bar and see. “That police _ublyudok_ shot him in the back,” he said, nodding towards the mutilated body of the police officer. Oleg’s nose crinkled up at the brutal sight before he turned away and took in Vaska, his shoulder being held together by Anatoly.

“He needs help,” Anatoly said, looking up at the man who had entertained him so many nights when Vladimir couldn’t be there for him. “A hospital or-”

“No!” Oleg exclaimed. “No hospitals.”

“But he-”

“No, Anatoly,” Oleg continued. “A hospital will not be safe for him. If he shows up with a bullet wound the police will be all over him. That’s not good for him and it’s certainly not good for your brother,” he pointed at Vladimir, “who just killed an officer.”

“He’s right, Anatoly,” Vladimir agreed, running an agitated hand through his hair. “It’s not safe.” He turned his gaze to Oleg. “What do you suggest we do then?”

Oleg ran a hand over his chin thoughtfully. “I have a house,” he said after a short while. “It’s old, I don’t live there anymore but I still own it. We can take your father there, clean his wound, tend to him, and let him heal. It will be safe, for a while.”

Vladimir nodded, no better solution coming to him. “Alright,” he mumbled. “But we must move him quickly.”

As they were speaking, Vaska had begun to awaken, muttering words too quiet to hear and twisting his head from side to side in pain. Anatoly had moved one of his hands from the gaping wound in his shoulder to rest reassuringly on his father’s forearm. Vladimir was proud at how calmly Anatoly was handling the entire situation. So much had changed in but a few short minutes. They were losing their home; they could never return to the bar, the crime scene of a police officer’s murder. They would be hunted for his death. They may yet lose their father, the only family the pair of brothers had left.

Oleg patted him encouragingly on the shoulder. “I will get my car. Bring your father out front.” With one more glance at the corpse of the policeman and some mumbled words which Vladimir assumed was a prayer for the dead man, Oleg whisked his jacket off of its hook and rushed out of the bar.

“Help me with him,” Vladimir breathed to Anatoly as he bent down and scooped his father into his arms. With aid from his younger brother he was able to pack some towels from the bar against Vaska’s wound and sling the man over his shoulder.

The brother’s left everything behind, owning no real objects of true sentimentality to bring with them. Anatoly ripped the picture of their father and his navy buddies down from the mirror behind the bar, folded it, and tucked it away in a hidden pocket of his jacket.

Together, Anatoly and Vladimir left the bar, leaving the life they once knew behind, the whole time listening to the apologies their father whispered, as if he was confessing his sins one last time.

**Author's Note:**

> I have three more chapters prepped and another one in the works. I plan to update with those every other week or so. Once those have been posted, lord only knows when I'll have time to get another chapter out there, but just bare with me. Hopefully, more will come not to far behind.


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